THE WIND AND THE RIVER

Still, the silent lake top
calls to the weary traveler
I am your mother
the source of generations.

The wind howls through
the cowering trees,
I am your father
the breath of life
is my gift to you.

the weary traveler
turns up his collar
defiantly harnessing the wind
and fording up the river.

I am man
and I am boundless.
I no longer fear the wind.
I consume the rivers
and I stand alone
on high .

The medicine men
weep as the old ways
disappear into history.

Old women and ancient men
acrimoniously scorn their
offspring for undoubtedly what they have
wrought is insolence;
as it was
so shall it always
be

War torn nations
bleed one another
scoffing at nature’s revenge.

The wind and the river
remain;
filled with the futile cries
of the few
and the blood of the many.